Strange New Clothes
by Doesanyonegiveaf-aboutchickens
Summary: Fred Weasley falls into a coma during the Battle for Hogwarts, however when George and Hermione's need for him to return calls him back, it's not quite the body he remembered. T for language.
1. Prologue

**This is my new story, lol about Fred Weasley. I found it very difficult to ignore this idea, I personally find it hilarious. But ah, enjoy.**

**This may seem very angsty but I can assure you it does become more humorous.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters, places and names etc etc (all credit goes to JK), only the plot is mine.**

**Set Post- War in AU.**

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><p>Things would never be the same again; one event had succeeded in turning everyone's lives upside down. It was hard to enjoy the pleasure of the fact that the war was over, not in light of what had happened to the Weasley's 4th child.<p>

An explosion, initiated by a villainous Death Eater, Augustus Rookwood, had blasted into Fred Weasley, rendering him catatonic; his face lifeless and his breathing shallow; Harry Potter had managed to drag him away from further damage, ultimately saving his life. However, Fred had never regained consciousness since the event, and had been placed in a ward in St Mungo's to await a magical recuperation.

Three months had passed with little or no change to George Weasley's twin, in fact absolutely nothing had changed at all. No matter how much George found himself wishing, praying for a miracle to bring his brother back to him; no amount of potions, nifty spellwork or pure faith had brought him any closer to his desires.

The effect obviously, was that George Weasley had succumbed to a black cloud of emotion, washing over him like a sepia toned photograph, all the colours had vanished. If you were to go looking for George, you would find him in his flat where he had not moved for several weeks now, the stench of unwashed skin and vomit permeated each and every nose that walked into the flat. Sometimes, George couldn't even find the will to go to the toilet, instead opting to sit in his own urine. This was the miserable state of affairs that he had been left in; he could find no amount of comfort from a bottle of liqueur, although he tried at first to drown his sorrows. That was the source of the smell of vomit, when he'd laid down in his own puke and waited for an end.

As George sat in his own filth, barely aware of reality that continued its path into the future, his thoughts inevitably turned to his brother. He refused to forget the sorry situation his brother had been placed in, he refused to give up hope that one day he would return. Nonetheless at the present moment, looking at Fred's all but lifeless body, made him feel hideously sick, punching at every inch of his skin much like an industrial sized hypodermic needle. George was hurting deep inside, and no one could address his pain, only pity him to have lost his other half at 20 years of age.

George imagined the day of his brother's return, like a twisted fantasy of longing, he could picture each and every moment. They wouldn't speak a word of his suffering; it would just be understood and acknowledged. Fred hadn't meant to leave him alone; he hadn't meant to tear his universe apart.

He would smell the same, of really bad aftershave and essence of murtlap, the faint smell of singed hair and toffees. He'd have his best friend back that would just know how he was feeling, and he wouldn't have the need to explain why. To be himself again, George missed that more than anything. He could see the accusations in his Mother's eyes, why Fred and not him? He'd clearly shown he was the twin more prone to harm, he didn't even have both ears for Merlin's sake!

He was incomplete.

George knew what he wanted; he wanted Fred, his Freddie back.

"_I wish he was here," _was all he could say.

It was hard for Mrs Weasley to see what the war had done to her family, the physical scars, the longing for her little boy to wake up, the longing for her other little boy to talk to her instead of locking himself away from everyone's prying eyes; the emotional trauma of events had reduced her heart to a million fragments of shattered glass. She couldn't help but feel fragile; she needed the support of her husband, who was too wrapped up in his own grief, the support of her sons, unable to talk to her about their feelings, and her daughter who had turned to the physical comfort that only Harry could provide. There was simply no time for disapproval.

The healers said give it time, but Molly was afraid, the longer she waited for her baby to return, the harder the grief would be to bare when they finally told her he wouldn't be coming back.

Many times, she found herself saying, why her? What had she done to deserve so much pain and loss? First her brothers had been taken and now it looked to be her own two precious boys. She feared more than anything that George would give up, and let his pain wash over him and consume him like hungry flames in a towering inferno.

Hermione Granger had spent the last three months drained to the bone, even without being a fully qualified witch she leant her expertise to every issue that arose in the rebuilding of the magical world. She was an invaluable source of logic and common sense that, Kingsley would have been very sad to be without.

However, the world had been devastated virtually to a state of disrepair, where no witch or wizard was able to trust another; it populated the corners of every well-meaning person until it was like an unspoken disease, rife in the wizarding community.

Yet, with a virulent regret Hermione's mind was never far from the casualties that had been suffered much closer to home, especially one man she had come to think of as a brother. Each time she visited his impassive form, tears of bitterness formed in her eyes, they rarely fell but stayed hanging by some invisible force.

It rendered her wordless and breaking inside; to think she hadn't been able to save her friend from his vegetable like existence, or his brother from a fate of distorted misery. If only she had been able to push him out of the way of the explosion, so that he had not hit his head, so that his body hadn't magically shut down in order to protect itself. She wished more than anything she could be able to talk to Fred and tell him how she felt. But angrily realised that she would never be able to have that chance, it had been denied of her indefinitely. It was times like these, she hated fate more than anything in the world, that it could have ripped Fred away from the world, considering all that happiness and laughter he had been key in providing.

Hermione knew what she wanted more than anything, she wanted Fred back, she needed Fred to come back and make everything right again.

"_I wish he was here,"_ was all she could say at the end of another struggle, another day without him.

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><p><strong>Review please, make a girl's day ;)<strong>


	2. I

**I love this story so much already.**

**Disclaimer: Do not own nuffing :( All credit goes to JK except for my plot!**

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><p>Fred paused to look at his brother disbelief in his eyes.<p>

Percy, of all people, had just made a joke, an actual bona fide joke. What was the world coming to, complete and utter madness.

Suddenly the reality of battle faded away, and Fred allowed himself to laugh, uninhibited genuine laughter at the absurdity of the situation. He'd forgotten the spells that were being aimed at his heart ready to kill him, because there was already that little bit of hope of what could be conceivable in the world. Love filled him and if at that very moment a loud explosion hadn't occurred, Fred thought he may possibly cry.

As it was, he was ripped off his feet, it took seconds for the overwhelming weight of something smoking, unbearably hot and forceful to smack into him. Pain crushed him and his lungs were smothered for oxygen, he was unaware of anything but the agony as his mind that had swirled with love and laughter moments before became absorbed and replaced with a deafening blackness. All thoughts left him. Fred remained in the wreckage of the attack, the smile lingering on his lips unconscious and bleeding, however as Harry dragged him from Percy's unwavering grip he was given a chance to stay alive.

The sound of music drifted across the waves of rolling darkness, it was echoing into impossible notes bouncing backwards and forwards before finding a resting place in his mind. It reminded Fred of a light and fruity wine, sweet and powerful all at once, leaving little to the imagination.

Where was he? When he tried to move, or at least open his eyes he found they would not do so at his command. Panic clenched at his heart, he was not in control of his body, and he was helpless.

Was this what it felt like to die? To lose your sense of self, be cut off from what made you you, piece by piece, a little bit at a time. Would he have to suffer the awareness of knowing he was losing what made him Fred, like a headache that wouldn't go away, he'd lose his essence?

To stop the morbid thoughts of his helplessness and incapability Fred tried to focus upon the angelic sighs of music, wafting into his conscious and leaving an inexplicable trace of… happiness?

What the fuck? There he was dying, and his body was getting all happy about it. Talk about traitorous.

"_I wish he was here"_

There it was a tug, like a puppet he started to come to life, warmth caressing him sensuously, trailing a path along his nerve endings for something more final. He could sense the longing, the raw demanding need, the bitter sweet emotion and the dirty, rude and nasty anger behind it. He grasped all of these emotions and clung onto them like his life depended on it, forcing himself to grip as tight as possible, repeating the urge "do. not. let. go."

His eyelids drew upon the emotion, giving them life and he awaited the loving expressions he'd encounter to see all his loved ones again. But he wasn't seeing anything definite, merely colour.

Fred was transfixed by the colours, every shade, tone, and affiliation that had ever been imagined, named and entrapped into Crayola creations. Whooshing colours, so bright he had to force himself not to shut his eyes again. Sly colours that crept up into his brain and slashed away with knife like strokes, defined for their precision.

His legs once redundant had moved and become weightless, Fred was almost 100% sure he was floating in this strange colourful explosion. It was nigh impossible for him to really be sure though, Fred honestly had absolutely no clue as to what was happening. All he _could_ be sure of was the electric pull towards the words that were yelling above the music, over and over in an ear-splitting rhythm.

Why wouldn't it stop?

He needed it to stop!

Fred was scared, he didn't understand what was going to come of him, he didn't know whether this was death or some very sick prank that was being played on him by George.

"Stop! I can't take anymore!" He found himself yelling at the top of his lungs.

The music ceased.

His eyes glued themselves shut.

His body became stiff and heavy with perfumed sleep.

Fred sighed with relief, and tried to make his body respond once again…

His eyes fluttered open with ease, and he could see a bright white ceiling above him. The homely sight was so welcoming he laughed aloud.

The noise was wrong and oddly displaced, it wasn't a familiar sound, and believe you me Fred would know what his laugh sounded like, after all his brother's laugh was practically identical.

His head was throbbing painfully, clearly the headache wasn't ready to abate yet, bugger me if he wasn't having some weird dreams. He paused, the war! What had occurred? Where was he? He needed someone to explain.

Sitting up, he stretched widely hearing his back click dramatically, but also focusing on his surroundings, which were oddly decorated with velvet curtains of a deep green, the walls thick with pink, blue and green jars of obscure natures. He scratched his head in confusion, pausing to notice his hair had grown remarkably long; he really needed to get it cut. He wondered where on earth he was. He would never put a painting of Alfred the Great on his wall; all that man was well known for was the size of his…

The smell of cloying incense and perfume flooded his senses, bringing back memories of…

Fred was frozen in shock.

Someone had stolen his hands. These were definitely _not_ his hands; they were feminine with pink glittery nail polish on them.

Screaming loudly, he pulled back the covers and fell out of bed, to a warm rose coloured shag pile carpet. In his shock he barely noticed the high pitched noise that was coming from his throat.

But finally concluded, as he scrambled to his feet, which were also ornamenting sparkly pink decorations, that he was a woman; somehow in the battle for Hogwarts he had had a sex change.

Well, today couldn't really get any worse could it?

He scanned the room for a mirror, but instead located a door which led to an even more gaudily decorated bathroom, turquoise suite and orange tiles, complete with a bidet. He supposed he'd need a fanny washer now he was a woman. With dread he walked towards the sink where a show girl style mirror was hanging, not all the lights were working. Fred didn't really need them to, to comprehend with horror he was staring Professor Trelawney in the face.

It was then he fainted.

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><p><strong>Go onnn review eet :P<strong>


	3. II

Sorry for my long absence; there is an excellent explanation but I shall not bore you with the details. Hopefully you will enjoy what I have produced. Thank you for reading.

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><p>It was an insistent tapping that finally dragged him from the darkness. Still, it didn't register for several minutes that George was hearing something other than his own uneven breathing. For such a long time, he had allowed himself to become unaware of his surroundings. There was no denying how much easier it was to not bother looking, hearing, smelling- existing.<p>

All bar a small shred of hope, that this was all just a bad dream, swimming about in the dark, like a tiny fish in an ocean of bleakness. George didn't want to think about it anymore, he'd rather block it out.

The pain he experienced on a daily basis was raw; it burned and ravaged every inch of him until there was simply nothing left. Slowly, it destroyed him inside, decimating his very soul, it felt tarnished, incomplete.

He was a twin. There is nothing solo about being a twin, the whole point of there being two of them, was that one was never left behind.

George couldn't help feeling bitter, wracked with an intense guilt. All the things he should have done, said, all the stupid things he should have changed. It should have been him. He was sure Fred would have handled it so much better than him; Fred wouldn't have run away from his bedside after 5 weeks. He would have stayed strong. Oh, this wasn't fair.

He groaned as the tapping grew louder and yet more incessant.

"Shut up already," he muttered aloud, the first time he'd spoken in days. George's throat was so dry and misused he was under the impression it was ready to close up and die from neglect.

The curtains at the window were drawn; he hadn't been able to face seeing the happier people in the streets below, delirious with victory, the banishment of Voldemort forever more. He hadn't been able to bear the curious remarks that wafted through the thin glass panes, when would WWW open again?

_Tap, tap, tap..._

He gave up, it wasn't going away. Half-heartedly he pondered upon whether it was Errol with another owl from his Mum. He had a haphazard stack of unopened letters upon the messy coffee table before him; he ignored each and every one. He couldn't stomach his family's grief any more than he could his own.

With one hand, he reached over to pull back a curtain, rigidly remaining in his seat upon the sofa. The window had steamed up with condensation, and nothing was clearly visible except from a dark shape hovering outside.

Yes, it was definitely an owl.

Reluctantly George reached a little further and opened the window, in favour of making the owl bugger off as soon as possible. The creature was an overly large tawny, however one he did not recognise. But saying that, George never really paid much attention to the specific details of the actual owls before, who knew whose owl this was. It dropped the letter into his lap with an indignant hoot at having been kept waiting, and fluttered back down on the windowsill; narrowly missing a treacherous fall through the now open window, which had let flow the bustling noise of activity below.

There was a single sheet of parchment; it said...

**_Dear George,_**

**_St Mungo's contacted me this morning to inform me that they had been unable to reach you. Your Mother and family are already at the hospital. I think you had better come down here as well._**

**_Last night Fred moved; apparently he sat up quite violently like someone had pulled him up by his hair, proceeded to scream very loudly and then returned to his comatose state._**

**_The healers' believe that this is a promising sign, and have requested your presence as your special connection to your brother may enable the process to speed up, and encourage further movement._**

**_Lots of love,_**

**_Hermione_**

George blanched; shivering convulsively he threw up everywhere.

"Fuck me," he groaned, spitting globs of sick out of his mouth, filled with the putrid taste of bile.

Merlin's beard! But that meant there was hope after all the shit that he'd been through. His brother, Fred was going to wake up. They'd be the Weasley twins again; not just pathetic old George wallowing and alone.

The letter crumpled in his hand involuntarily, his chest clenched with jab of emotion it was suddenly expected to respond to, to function around after lying dormant for weeks. The acidic burn of throat, welling with gratification that he'd actually read a letter for a change.

He sat up, spittle trickling down his chin into his beard. George wiped it away savagely with the back of his hand.

With an audible whimper he sat himself upright, popping bones in all directions as he moved to a new position. Leaning forward he grabbed a broken self-inking quill, snapped in half and tatty, from a pile of rubbish on the coffee table; hastily he scribbled back a reply. His handwriting looked foreign and unnatural; he hadn't seen it for a while.

**_I am coming_**

The unknown owl gave him a beady eyed stare, and a screech of vehemence, clearly puking in front of an owl offends its sensibilities. It clicked its beak numerous times, before taking flight with the note firmly attached to its left leg. George sighed dejectedly as he managed to peel himself off of the settee. It shouldn't have been this painful, but his skin had stuck awkwardly where exposed to the crusting surface material. The smell of his vomit permeated his nostrils unpleasantly and his gag reflex claimed his attention for a moment.

As his stomach settled for a second he was able to locate his wand and set about vanishing the glistening bile that had covered his t-shirt and trousers, among other places. He proceeded to cast a hurried cleaning charm upon his extremities, and grubby skin; so that he at least didn't smell of something that died a week ago, but wasn't too bothered about his filthy and stained clothing. He also, forgot to point his wand anywhere remotely near his face, so that it remained as revolting as the rest of him had been before magic had been involved.

He hobbled to the fireplace, his limbs stiff with misuse.

There was hope. He was going to see Fred; things were only going to get better.

George took a pinch of the glittering black powder, flicked his wand randomly at the cold dead fire in the grate, it sprang up to life with roaring flames. Throwing the powder into the centre of his magically created inferno, he croaked "St Mungo's" as he stepped into the bright green flames.

The white cleanliness that confronted his eyes burnt them mercilessly. He shaded them with his half dirty hand, patchy in places where the cleaning charm had missed; drawing breath he took another shaky step, away from the fire and into the germ free environment. George couldn't help but feel like a walking bacteria; he could still feel the layer of acid upon his tongue, coating it like glue to the roof of his mouth.

"Oh, George," said an unfamiliar voice, foreign to his ears due to the fact he'd been living in self enforced silence for the last 7 weeks. The body that the voice belonged to crashed into him, in a manner than reminded him of thunder following lightning. He froze under the person's cool and light touch, arms pulling him closer. George stood there apprehensively, feeling sick all over again.

Looking down, he realised it was a girl; her features familiar, a concerned frown upon her petite face. She looked different simultaneously, added frown lines, she had aged inexorably. He attempted to discern a name, from his foggy brain.

"I thought I'd wait for you," she said against his chest. "I mean, if you want to see him alone-"

He cut her off. George was in no mood for talking, but he needed someone. If it had to be her, so be it.

"Stay," he said, but made no move to return her reassuring hold. "Where is he? Is he awake yet?"

These were the most important questions, the only words he could quite manage to utter with his hoarse and disused voice. George looked at her severely, his knitted brow demanding answers. He watched her shifting facial expressions, his own face impassive, revealing nothing. Hope bubbled desperately, wedging into his cracking armour, letting love fight for control once more.

George remained guarded; he noticed her pretty face fall ever so slightly. The cracks widened, he was crumbling, doubt echoing in his mind.

"He's still in intensive care on the fourth floor; they've moved him to room 49 though to monitor any future movements more closely. Healer McAllister wants to speak to you about further things they can do to encourage a response.

"But isn't it wonderful George! He's finally making some progress, just when I wished he'd come back; he moves. I can't bel-"

"What?" He said harshly, interrupting her unceremoniously. "What exactly do you mean... wish he'd come back?" His tone was unforgiving.

"I miss him too you know, he was my friend as well. Sometimes you'd do well to realise you're not the only person hurting," Hermione snapped, recoiling from the harshness of his words, and letting her hand drop to her side.

"He's not your brother though Hermione. So I'd appreciate it if you kept your stupid wishes to yourself." He hissed scathingly.

Her eyebrow rose, "come on then. At least come and see him. And then I'll bloody well leave you alone.

"Thank you," he replied shortly, not looking her in the eye, transferring his gaze instead to the bustling healers and injured wizards/witches. "Lead the way."


	4. III

I promise you it doesn't stay like this forever, but this is how I think a grief stricken George would be. From experience alcohol is not what you become dependent upon, but dissociation.

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><p>Mrs Weasley's jaw dropped when she saw her son George, for the first time in a painfully long while. Hermione was leading him into the room, by holding his arm tightly in her grasp. It seemed as though she was terrified he would run away again. George's face was gaunt and pale, hidden beneath several weeks worth of facial hair growth, which was a darker reddy brown than the deep orange of his hair, matted and in straggly locks. Molly suspected it hadn't been washed since before the war, it had lumps of, she couldn't even think what that was clinging to the greasy strands; it turned her stomach slightly, wondering. His eyes were cold and lifeless, but had a spark of interest deep in the depths of his once animated blue eyes.<p>

With a horrible jolt, Molly Weasley realised that the thing she had most dreaded had started to occur, George was almost completely without hope of regaining his twin. She scrutinised harder to try and discern the little, tiny piece that remained; the one thing that had kept him going thus far. It was there, but buried so well-hidden that even George had difficulty recognising it. Anger ripped through her, so aggressively Mrs Weasley uttered a barely audible hiss; she was often remarked as being rather like an infuriated cat when angry. How had this happened? How had she let herself become such a complacent Mother that she had been unable to support her son at his most vulnerable?

He stood there sullenly, closest to the doorway; his face tense and hyperaware of his surroundings, almost as though he was assessing the climate of the room, and the general mood of its occupants.

Hope died on his tongue, the chill of sluggish ice travelling through his veins, finally killed every last hopeful feeling. Emotionless apathy rolled over him like a suffocating blanket, choking him, cloying his senses. He could breathe, or think around it. As he watched his Mother consider him with tear-filled eyes, he grew unbelievably angry, something he found himself unable to express.

George's own weariness was understandable, Molly's heart panged consciously as it reminded her of her son, lying motionless upon the firm St Mungos bed. This wasn't how the end of the war was supposed to be, she had imagined it happy, full of joy that the wizarding community no longer had to live in fear each day. Everything was wrong, and her baby was suffering for it. She wished to fix him, see him smile once more. Instead, there George was, his skin hanging from his bones, dirty clothes shrouding his once stocking frame, covering the atrophied muscle.

"George," she whimpered, out of the seat, and pulling him to her chest. She desperately clung to him, inhaling the inexplicable stench that exuded from him; Molly wanted him to feel the hope that hid behind murky depths of depression and grief. "George, my darling boy. Have you heard the good news?"

George remained stone beneath her grasp, like with Hermione moments before, he was unresponsive. He did not even recognise his own Mother's touch.

Ginny re-entered, having flooed Harry with news about Fred's condition, she paused as she saw George, her features betraying horror at dramatic change of demeanour and physical appearance. "Harry said he'll meet you after the meeting with Minerva about returning for 7th year when Hogwarts reopens in September." Ginny said matter-of-factly to Ron and Hermione. "Hello George," she added, which did not receive a response.

Arthur oversaw the scene with sorrowful eyes, Fred's regular breathing drowned out by his wife's fresh tears. He'd lost two sons, not one. It broke him to know that even George's own Mother could not reach him in his deadened loneliness.

"Dad?" He distantly acknowledged Bill saying his name quietly in his ear.

"Yes son?" He replied, pushing every ounce of love, respect and kindness ooze into his expression, to show his sons, his daughter, his daughter-in-law, and even Hermione, watching him and Molly anxiously, that he loved them very much. He would not allow any more of his kin to become estranged by anguish.

"Should we go? Maybe he needs time on his own with Fred. It's not fair to push him too fast. He's not ready-" Bill muttered, so not to be overheard. Arthur could hardly listen, he watched as George's stance became more aggressive as he regarded his twin with cold eyes. He had moved closer, dismissing Molly and Hermione casually.

Arthur pondered momentarily as to what course of action would be best for this particular time, of course Bill was right, if they pushed too hard too fast-

"He's exactly the fucking same, Mum!" George yelled at that precise moment, rounding on Mrs Weasley, his voice horse with raw emotion, and his posture hunched and tense. He gestured angrily at Fred, whose own face devoid of laughter and passion looked foreign.

Arthur was crumbling, this was all wrong George had not once in his entire 20 years upon this planet ever shouted at Molly with as much hostility as he was displaying now. Arthur could feel his blood boiling. This is what his family had been reduced to; Percy wracked with guilt, like George incapable of seeing Fred immobile, blamed himself. Now reunited with his family after two and a half years of estrangement, morose and devoid of ambition; he was no longer the same man, not even the shell of the man Arthur had raised from infancy. George... well words did not do George justice. However, Arthur would not stand for this.

"This isn't Fred. My brother is... gone," at last, he started to cry, sinking to his knees besides the bed, as though his legs had lost the will to hold him up any longer. "I want him back. I want him back; I can't do it without him." George moaned hollowly, shaking with strangled sobs that seemed to violently break free of his wasted frame.

"Oh, George," Molly sighed, he face distraught, half yearning to comfort her boy; but terrified of upsetting him further.


	5. IV

I'm afraid the pov in this story jumps about a lot, sorry. I can't seem to stay on one person, as there's simply too much to cover. Thank you for reading still!

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><p>Bill clasped his father's shoulder, acknowledging Arthur's loss of control silently. Ginny hugged her Mother tightly, and he could hear her distantly reassuring Molly, as well as indicating to Ron, hovering awkwardly by Fleur, who looked bewildered at such a display of feelings when the news from the healers had been so positive; that he should give her a hand. Arthur wondered at her choice through his tears, thinking that Ron although a kind boy, was not the most diplomatic with words.<p>

Yet as Ron patted his Mum's head sheepishly, Molly drew comfort from it, to stop shaking and rein in her emotions scattered, powerful and soul destroying as they were. She was not alone; she had her family, a wonderful husband. They would pull together and save her boys, the thought consoled her immeasurably.

Charlie was nothing but overwhelmed, he found high-strung feelings hard to manage at the best of times, and being in a small room filled with people on the edge was a little too much for him to handle. He struggled to find the right thing to do, or say; let alone comforting George, or his Mother. Charlie was no good at this shit; he opened and closed his mouth a few times, his eyes glancing towards Fleur who looked like he felt.

"I'll get some tea," Charlie finally announced. He left the room with a purposeful stride; Fleur's eyes flickered to her husband, who was still assessing the situation with a furrowed brow. She thought perhaps it would be best to leave the room diplomatically and deal with their personal matters between themselves. These English had a funny way of expressing emotion, and Fleur wasn't sure how much help she would be. Her heart broke to see Bill taking the responsible position amongst his siblings, he was hurting so much inside, and none of them seemed to be acknowledging that. Never mind, she would make him feel better later. With that in mind she glided out of the hospital room and followed Charlie who paused and allowed her to catch him up.

"Leave him, Hermione," Ron warned from his Mother's side; as he watched his best friend move towards his grief stricken brother. His gaze full of concern for her safety, there had been many a time when Ron had received the brunt of George's anger, whether intentionally or unintentionally... When not disguised in the form of a trick, his actions could prove to be fairly cruel.

Her eyes were glued to George, her expression warped by sadness and loneliness; Hermione identified with him, she yearned above all else to help him, but was at a loss as to how to do so. George had lost a brother, his other half and a best friend all at once. She had lost both of her parents, they had no knowledge of her existence, and she had no knowledge of their whereabouts. Hermione grieved for their loss as keenly as she did for Fred, remorse of her actions that had led up to this point in time. The lack of time she had spent with her family before they were lost to her, the lack of respect she had shown for the twins' inventions. More than anything in the world did she regret not taking the time to acknowledge what was before her; she had wasted it all in the search for magical understanding and facts. Thousands of spells that would not bring back the three people she wanted.

Although Hermione had thrown herself into the dedication of restoring the United Kingdom's magical residences, and government distorted by the last two years of dirty and underhanded corruption; it did not fill the hole in her heart or make her self-doubt and pity lessen.

She needed George, to support him through his time of need would enable her to heal, and eventually regain her purpose. Without him, life had become aimless, mirthless and a miserable existence.

Not saving Fred, not saving all those people, how would she ever forgive herself?

The redhead's sobbing had slowed, but his breathing was shallow and uneven, his weak arms clutching at the bed sheets, tugging them from their neat hospital corners as he held onto them for support. The room was silent, all communication conveyed through the glances of worry exchanged repeated by the room's inhabitants.

Ron gave Hermione one more pleading look, as she took another step forward, as though her legs were carrying her of their own accord; she looked almost to be in a trance like state.

"Hermione," Ginny said, her tone matching her brother's, warning her of the dangers she approached.

"He needs a bloody hug, okay?" Hermione snapped, finally cracking from her silence. "I don't care what he says, he is not okay. He can hit me for all I care; I am going to give him a fucking hug if it kills me."

Ron looked shocked, especially at her language and attitude towards impending jeopardy of George's volatile mood. Molly smiled, encouraging her, watery eyes glistening.

Hermione's arms wrapped themselves around George, as she knelt behind him so that they were in an uncomfortable spooning position. She rested her head upon his shoulder, hushing him tenderly.

"Fuck. Off." George immediately said stiffly, taking a huge sniff which caused his blocked nose to crackle wetly, indicating its overflowing state of snot.

"No," she mumbled into his shoulder, heating his cold skin with her hot breath. "I'm here for you George, please let me be here for you."

He did not move, staring resolutely at the bed, his posture rigid and frosty. Ginny lending her own numerous strength, sunk to her knees next to him, silently conveying her grief and anguish in an attempt to show him that he was not alone in this. Like they were all trying to show him.

He batted them both off, wildly swinging his arms. "Will you just leave me alone?" He yelled, finally turning and looking Hermione in the eye, it made her recoil in dismay, his eyes venomous and feral practically snarling at her like an infuriated beast.

She swallowed; it was painfully loud in her ears. "No," Hermione spat forcefully, steeling every ounce of energy to add confidence and courage to her voice, to make him see, to make him understand. "I am not going anywhere, not until you listen to me, to your Mum, to your family, George." Her voice was wavering, but her steady gaze never leaving his face, studying his features for a reaction.

His lightning fast reflexes caught her off guard. One minute Hermione had been knelt behind him as he twisted round to glare at her; the next he had pushed her so hard she found herself tumbling into the side of the bed, cracking her head against it.

Ron lunged for her as she fell, attempting to either prevent her fall or cushion her. He failed miserably, his keeper skills were somewhat rusty after a year of traipsing the country in order to find and destroy Horcruxes.

Pain exploded in her head, reverberating around her skull; her vision blurring with coloured spots erupting, even when she squeezed her eyes shut. Hermione whimpered, her hands reaching her face and cradling it between her hands.

"Oh shit, Hermione. Are you okay?" Ginny exclaimed as Ron simultaneously called out her name, whilst sprawled on the ground besides her. She just made a muffled noise, her hands tightly clamped upon her face, which was evidently bleeding due to the red oozing between her fingers.

Arthur had stood up. "George," he shouted in a tone that was harsh and unyielding. Neither Bill, Ron or Ginny could recall having ever heard their father sound so angry. Actually scratch that, furious, livid.

Bill beat him to George though, "What are you doing, you absolute fucking wanker!" He'd grabbed George by this filthy t-shirt, yanked him to his feet and proceeded to shake him violently. "You think acting like a vicious bastard is going to bring him back? When are you going to get it into your head that our brother is NOT DEAD!" He roared at George so loudly, it reminded Ron of Harry's Uncle.

"I WILL NOT HAVE YOU FIGHTING," Molly started shrieking, her tone verging on hysterical. Her wand was out poised for action. This did nothing to loosen Bill's hold upon his brother. Arthur, grabbed her hand to steady her; she fell uncharacteristically silent, eyes re-glazing with tears.

George looked up at him, dazed. But defiance returned to his tone as he opened his mouth. "He's my tw-"

However Bill was having none of it; the usually cool and collected man had well and truly lost his rag. In fact, you could almost see the steam pouring out of his ears, his neck and face glowing ominously. "Pull. Yourself. Together!" every word punctuated with a firm, jaw-rattling jerk.

In George's weakened state, he was helpless to defend himself from his much older and stronger brother.

"You think you're the only one that's hurting George? You think you're the only one that's upset about Fred?" Bill said malevolently, the volume having decreased but none of the fury.

"We had good news today, but you've ruined it." Ron joined in hotly, interrupting Bill's tirade; but adding to the incensed atmosphere. He stood threateningly, protecting Hermione and Ginny who were still on the floor, Ginny trying to coax her bloodied hands away from her face.

"It's not good fucking news if he's still like this, Ron," George snarled, his hands clawing at Bill's vice like grip upon his shoulders. "Would you please, get the fuck off me?"

Bill growled, the dormant wolf inside of his rearing its repugnant head, Arthur shivered as he saw the shift in his son's eyes. He attempted to step between them and stop this fight before it got ugly. Through his own controlled anger, Arthur still wanted his family together, not split apart by the tragedy.

"You little-"

"Bill," Arthur murmured warningly.

"What Dad? You're all thinking it." He announced; his tone aggressive. Bill's hands remained clenched in the fabric, George having been unable to loosen them. "Why don't you start thinking about how other people are coping, huh? Think about Mum and Dad, how they might be fucking feeling about all of this? He is my brother too.

"You'd do well to remember we're all here fucking worried about you as well, whilst you've been holed up in that flat of yours, not answering owls, floo calls or knocks at the door. We've all missed you, but not this you, not this you in the slightest. I don't even know who this is."

Bill seemed to visibly deflate as his rant ran out of steam, Ron was disconcerted to see that tears had formed, unshed but a painful reminder of why they were all here arguing. The hands attached to George unclenched, causing him to stumble from the loss of contact. The calculated expression had not faltered, but a measure of respect had formed.

Arthur nodded, feeling it was the appropriate kind of gesture amongst all the would- be violence.

Ron bent down to assist Ginny, who had finally persuaded Hermione to look at her. She was attempting to convince the red-head that it was just a scratch, yet was failing miserably. "

"Great Merlin's left nipple," a voice exclaimed. "It seems I've missed all the action. Tea anyone?" Charlie waltzed in, preceded by a floating tray of steaming mugs. Fleur trailed him, carrying a substantial amount of shortbread biscuits. He paused, his gaze drifting from his Mother's tear stained cheeks, to the three red face men stood close together various stages of fury etched upon their features; finally to Hermione's blood stained face and Ginny's hard-edged concern.

"Hermione? What happened to your head?" Charlie continued, confusion intermingling with the apprehension colouring his tone.

Hermione squeaked out an, "I'm fine", followed by Ron's loud exclamation of "no you're not, you silly cow", as he tenderly muttered a simple healing spell which congealed the blood haphazardly. He still wasn't very good at healing magic; he had yet to gain finesse. Hermione smiled gratefully at him, and held onto Ginny's hand wincing in pain as she eased herself up onto shaky feet. The colour had drained from her once healthy looking skin, and she looked more tired and worn than ever.

"Let's get you home," Ron said softly, shooting George a final glare.

"Don't worry, Ron. I can manage." She muttered back, squeezing his arm reassuringly, but wobbling all the same. "I just need to sit, for a minute..." Hermione concluded, sinking down into the seat besides Molly, and closing her eyes.

"I'll take her Ron," Ginny said firmly, a look of understanding passing between the two of them; just as Charlie passed them both hot mugs of milky but strong tea.

He also handed his Mother a mug, "have a cuppa Ma, make you feel better."

Mrs Weasley summoned a sugar bowl, and Ron spooned several teaspoons of sugar into his tea, and stirred it aggressively. He preferred sweet tea when he was agitated, the sugar hit helped him to focus somewhat.

The other Weasleys adjusted their teas according to personal preference, Arthur for example suited to the stronger, builders' brew.

They sipped in silence, looking at one another and then to the motionless twin, breathing evenly in the background. Finally Bill turned to his wife giving her a pointed stare.

"We'd better be off; I promised Fleur we'd look at colour schemes for the baby's room as we were in London today. It's been a long day and I don't want her to get too tired." Bill said quietly, grasping hold of Fleur's dainty fingers. She smiled at him, the familiar sight of adoration adorning her impossibly beautiful face.

"We will 'av to come back anuzer day," she said breathily. She moved towards Molly, sweeping her into her arms and kissing her on each cheek, whispering love and encouragement into her ears. All of which Molly was grateful to hear, regretting the discriminatory attitude she had held against the Delacour girl she had first met two years previously. "Take care, Moll-ee."

Fleur moved onto the rest of the family, bumping her pregnant stomach into each of them in turn, giving them a gentle reminder that one joy was at least to be expected, if not the return of an already beloved family member. Bill shadowed her, echoing her Goodbyes; clapping Ron and Charlie on the back, giving his Mother and his sister a tight and comforting hug; squeezing Hermione's and then his Father's shoulder before he rounded on George.

"And you, George; you better get your shit together and apologise. So help me Merlin, I'll rip your fucking nuts off if you so much as lay a finger on a family member again." He threatened venomously as he took his wife's hand, leaving this room with a final stony glance at George over his shoulder.


	6. V

The last update for now, but the next section will be more light hearted, perhaps even funny. I can't write this without there being angst, it wouldn't be realistic other wise. However George will become more functional now. Promise.

Now, eat the chicken.

* * *

><p>A steady silence fell upon the resuming party; Ron's pocket squawked, everyone jumped at the sound.<p>

"The Ministry again?" Arthur murmured sympathetically. Ron raised an eyebrow, indicating its significance. "Well son, if you have to go, don't feel obligated to stay, there is more than enough of us here in case the Healer returns with more news."

"Thanks Dad," he said with a grateful smile.

"Are you sure, they can't find more experienced wizards-" Mrs Weasley butted in anxiously. The thought of another son in danger, another mission, brought her to her feet to look up into Ron's face. She drank him in, memorising him again, just to be safe.

"No, Mum I've told you one hundred times already. I have to go, only three of us really understand this shit;" he jabbed a finger at Hermione. "Look at the state of her now, thanks to him, I've got to do all her work as well."

Hermione registered groggily that he was referring to her and opened her mouth to object. "Ron-"

He held up a hand to silence her. "Thanks for the tea, Charlie. I'll have to cancel the drink at the Cauldron I'm afraid." He surveyed Fred's bed, one last glance to hold him through the day. He wasn't dead, not yet.

"Nah mate, it's fine. Eh, my little brother- national hero. That'll never get old. Definitely trumped my dragons, you sly git." Charlie jabbed him in the shoulder, with a laugh. Ron nodded, giving his Mother a one armed hug, and departed.

George stared resolutely at Fred, wanting to leave, but unable to do so. He felt awkward, and alien; natural manner and an ease of talking came to him expertly. Without his good humour and twin to bounce off of he found himself speechless and gawky. Fred's body was ghostly pale, lips passive.

In his peripheral vision, he caught Hermione's "I told you, you aren't alright," expression, although she still seemed slightly dazed. The cut across her forehead had congealed, and dried blood marred her skin.

His anger disappeared, replaced instead with cold horror, his mouth dry and aching.

"I'm fine," she said instantly, as though reading his mind. "I did say you could hit me." Her laugh rang in his ears, false humour. How could she manage it when he could not?

George sagged; he lost whatever held him upright, becoming wizened before his family's eyes. His eyes fixed themselves upon the corner of her mouth, "I'm sorry," croaked an unfamiliar person, it echoed in his ears dry and raspy. Him.

He wasn't sure when she re-entered his arms, they were limp, unable to maintain a solid and profound grip upon the shaking female, whose soothing touch caressed the side of his face.

George could feel his insides tearing his apart, never in all his life had he shown aggression to one of his friends. How could she even look at him? He was disgusting.

"How can you stand my man stink?" He growled, in his disused voice.

"I'm holding my breath, I don't want to throw up on you."

That tickled him, "hah." He snorted, surprising himself.

Hermione's tone stayed serious, "Look at him, really look. You're not seeing him anymore. The Fred in your head is different to how I see him now. Trust me, please?" Her lips moved in slow motion, he had no choice but to trust her now, the gaping hole in her head said so. They matched; he had a gaping hole too.

She was leading him over to the bed, pressing Fred's cool palm into his tense one. What was this supposed to do, he couldn't feel anything. Tepid fingers alarmingly lifeless; not a twitch of recognition, they remained stiff and unresponsive. There used to be a spark of familiarity about his brother, the backward reflection of his own face, always grinning. The wrench returned, and suddenly all the animation drained away, he was back in the dark; suffocating and omnipresent.

Back to square one, all over again.

"Focus on me," a whisper below his chin, cool fingers reaching but not finding. "Focus, he is alive, he will wake up. He is your brother and he loves you; he wouldn't want this George. He wouldn't want it this way." She repeated, over and over.

"I can't do this, I can't," child-like fear reflected in his words.

It was crushing, pulling him deeper into a place filled with his greatest fears.

"He'll leave me, and I can't cope with this."

The people around him disappeared, his eyes only seeing a mouth moving, words saying he was loved, that they were there for him; that Fred loved him, more than anything in the world.

Slowly, it passed; and he could see again. The room was quiet, even breathing of 7 people.

Charlie coughed uneasily, grief was never his forte. George's senses were jarred by the sound, causing him to look the last lucid brother in the eye. Charlie couldn't help himself and beamed, his ironic sense of humour closely matched that of the twins.

"Thanks Charlie," George muttered, holding out his hand, in what could have been interpreted as a peace offering. Charlie thought perhaps that was better than nothing.

"Look," he began after a pregnant pause. "How about we go to the Cauldron, my treat? It'll do no good to sit around waiting for stuff to happen. We have to stay positive and trust that Fred'll pull through. If we lose faith now, we fucking might as well bury the bastard.

"It's like Bertie, he's a short horned Brazilian, tiny little blighter, and he was weaker than a kitten when he hatched. Sybil lost hope, discarded him as a runt. But I bloody didn't, I knew if he had the right care... And he pulled through; now him and Sybil fighting all the time. You'd never have known his first four months were hit and miss."

Molly rolled her eyes, "honestly Charlie George and Fred aren't dragons."

"Yeah well; if I were to compare my family to anything, a dragon would be the closest you could get. I love dragons and I love my family." He said defensively.

"Oh, you wonderful, wonderful boy," she cried, knocking Ginny aside in her haste to embrace him.

"Man," he corrected, muffled by her hair

"Man, boy... you're still my baby." Molly crooned.

"Bloody hell," was all George said. "You're gonna make her cry again, you daft bugger." His eyes remained haunted, but his expression had taken on a semblance of its former glow. "I think I'll take you up on that offer."

He could discern amongst Mrs Weasley's mothering, Charlie nodding, in a very manly way.

Charlie's stomach rumbled and he began talking about stopping off at a chippy on the way to Diagon Alley.

George mumbled his assent, agreeing that he could murder a savaloy and chips right about now. He patted Fred's arm absently, as they bid their parents farewell speaking to a green clad Healer. Ginny and Hermione, who were off to seek medical intervention, Ron's shoddy number had broken open and was bleeding profusely.

"Sorry again, Herms," George said wryly, she waved him away in good humour.

"Piss off," Ginny said finally. "Hermione, come back to Grimauld Place after. We can wait for Harry there, besides Andromeda is bringing Teddy over later and he loves pulling off your buttons."

Charlie paused, assessing George for a second with a wrinkled forehead. "First stop is your flat, you need to wash or something you smell worse than a Troll; come to think of it, you look like one too."


End file.
